Eros Element Page 3

  They exited the building, which had been denuded of its ivy facade.

  “A pity about the ivy,” Iris said. “The little green leaves waving in the breeze gave the department such a sage air.”

  “Ah, yes, but it’s destructive.” Bledsoe gestured with his free hand. “The roots eat their way through the rocks and produce small cracks, which turn into big cracks, which can bring down an entire structure more quickly than one would expect.”

  “You sound like you speak from experience.”

  “I’ve seen it happen in many circumstances. Whether it’s a building requiring its mortar or a musical ensemble needing a certain amount of trust and understanding, it only takes a few tendrils to bring everything crashing down.”

  Iris listened to his subtext and responded. “And what are these tendrils of which you speak, good sir?”

  “Distrust and deception regarding motive and circumstance.” They’d reached the squat stone building that housed the student dining hall with its faculty attachment. Iris stopped herself before heading into the faculty area. Yes, it was summer, but what if one of her father’s colleagues happened to be in there for a mid-morning cuppa or an early lunch? She’d had her fill of lying for the day.

  “Thank you for accompanying me this far,” she said. “But I’m afraid I must say goodbye. I have a lot to prepare for this journey.”

  The musician tugged her along into the faculty wing. “We haven’t finished our conversation yet, Miss McTavish. I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”

  “In that case, I would be more comfortable on the student side.” Perhaps one of Father’s students will see me and rescue me.

  “Oh no. The tea is much better in the faculty hall, as I’m sure your father told you.”

  “He would bring me here sometimes.” Now Iris had to suppress the tears that wanted to fall. Crying would let on she hid information from him, although she suspected he knew or had found the telegram.

  Sophie had disappeared somewhere between the Aetherics Department and the dining hall. Iris couldn’t blame her—she’d agreed with Sophie that if she got caught, she would take the sole responsibility. However, until she knew with certainty Bledsoe had the telegram, she wasn’t going to let anything slip.

  A pot of tea and plate of scones with little bowls of clotted cream and plum jam appeared on the table, courtesy of the students who worked in the faculty dining hall over the summer. They’re barely older than I am. Would she have to take such a position if this scheme fell through? She couldn’t imagine slinging scones for a living.

  Bledsoe poured the tea for them and took a long sip. “Excellent, as always.”

  Iris thought it tasted bitter, and she added some sugar. When she looked up, she found him studying her.

  “Sir, your gaze is very forward.”

  “I cannot help but notice you haven’t removed your gloves. Are you planning on leaving so soon?”

  Iris swallowed and pulled the corners of her mouth back into a patient little smile. “You are quite right. I forgot myself.” She pulled them off slowly and hoped the teacup hadn’t gained too many impressions since being washed.

  “Tell me, Miss McTavish,” he said and took the sugar tongs from her plate with surprising gentleness before helping himself to a cube. “Do women’s skirts often have hidden pockets, and when they do, do those pockets always have holes in them?”

  Warm spots flared like two brands had been pressed to her cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But she couldn’t look him in the eye.

  “I’m trying to figure out if you lied about your father so you could be included on the trip and gain fame and fortune for yourself or if your air of desperation indicates more dire circumstances.”

  “Now you’re speaking nonsense.” Put down the sugar tongs. Put them down so I can see what you’re up to.

  “As you can imagine, the task we’re about to undertake is going to be quite difficult. My primary concern isn’t for you, as non-chivalrous as that makes me. It’s for Edward Bailey.”

  Now Iris looked at him. “The aetherist?”

  “Yes, him. As you could tell, he can be difficult.”

  “What in the world could be the problem? He seemed quirky, but I didn’t think he would be any trouble.”

  “Quirky doesn’t begin to describe him. He’s one of those gentlemen who likes things just so.”

  Iris kept her hands folded in her lap. Would he never put those tongs down? “What does that have to do with me?”

  Bledsoe gestured with the tongs. “He values honesty in others above all else. You noticed the animosity between him and Chairman Kluge?”

  Iris nodded. “They seem not to like each other very much.”

  “Well, that’s because Harry lied to Edward when he was hired. I forget about what, some small thing, but it was enough. Edward never trusted him again, and it has led to some friction in the department.”

  There was the mention of trust again. Iris took a scone, thankful her talent didn’t extend to foodstuffs, and hoped her hand didn’t tremble in an obvious way. “And so you’re concerned about the expedition? What happened to him to make him that way?”

  “As with most problems, his started when a woman caught his eye.”

  Iris straightened. “There’s no need to insult me.”

  “There is if it makes you listen to me.” Bledsoe put the tongs back in the sugar cube bowl and ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up. “He got his heart broken by a girl named Lily. He’s a simple chap in some ways—brilliant with science, but dumb when it comes to dealing with other humans, especially women.”

  “Then I shall be certain to give him a wide berth. He will have his job, and I will have mine. I’ll make my father proud.” Iris tilted her head at him like she’d seen her mother do for years when challenged. “Is there anything else?” And do you have any proof for your allegations?

  “Is there another name you could go by?”

  Iris almost dropped her scone. “Excuse me?”

  “If you were Ivy, that would be fine, but Edward doesn’t like flowers.”

  “Again, it shouldn’t be any concern of his. What is your motivation in all this? Why are you going?”

  “You heard Parnaby Cobb. You’ll need help getting the artistic elite and their wealthy patrons to allow you into their salons, studios, and parlors to see their artifacts and paintings if you have any hope of tracking down whatever this quest is after. Do you need more sugar? You already put a cube in your tea. It will be unbearably sweet.”

  “Right.” Iris drew her hand back from the sugar tongs. I give up. “But what is your motivation? You’re a musician and artist with plenty of patrons here.”

  Bledsoe returned her gaze with a startled expression. “Can’t a young man go on an adventure without being questioned?”

  “Apparently the chances of that are the same as a young woman agreeing to help with one without being accused of deception.”

  He popped the end of a scone in his mouth and finished the dregs of his tea. “Remember, Miss McTavish,” he said after he finished chewing, “I’ll be watching you. And I’ll be holding on to this.” He fished the telegram from his waistcoat pocket and held it up. She clenched her fist so she wouldn’t make an unladylike grab for it, as badly as she wanted to. But to do so would draw more attention to herself and her predicament; academics were such hopeless gossips. The sugar from the top of one of the scones crunched in her back teeth when she bit back a scream of frustration.

  “Why not expose me now?” she asked. “Since you so obviously needed to make the point.”

  “Because I suspect having this information will be useful later.” He stood and bowed. He disappeared before Iris could retort.

  She counted backward from twenty—no, better make that thirty—to still her th
rumming heart, or at least get the darn thing to stop sending clogging sensations to her throat and jolts of panic to her stomach. She slid a hand into her hidden pocket and found it, indeed, had a hole in it. When had that happened? Sophie should have been maintaining her clothes better.

  Or I should have been more careful. She took a sip of the now cold tea, ignoring the invitation to see what the student who’d last handled the cup felt at the time. She picked up the tongs, but all she sensed was concern with an undercurrent of true fear.

  If she didn’t need the money so badly, Iris would bow out of the whole affair, but as it was, she would now have to be more careful. But about what? Not to charm the strange Edward Bailey too much? Granted, he was nice-enough looking with his chestnut hair and large blue eyes, but she’d detected his nervousness without having to read any of his possessions. Traveling with him would likely be a nightmare, but would it be more so than she anticipated?

  Is Professor Bailey that unstable? Or worse, is he brilliant but truly mad?

  Chapter Four

  Waltham Manor, 07 June 1870

  “This is going to be a nightmare.” Edward sat in his brother’s parlor and put his head in his hands. “They want me to go traipsing about Europe and god knows where else and look at art, all in the name of searching for something that doesn’t exist. Art, Christopher.”

  “That, indeed, sounds terrible.” Christopher Bailey—or the Duke of Waltham depending on one’s degree of intimacy with him and his household—poured two fingers of brandy into a cut crystal glass with the family seal etched on the side. He had his back to Edward, but the shake of his shoulders made Edward wonder if the duke used the opportunity to chuckle at him. Perhaps visiting the family estate on the small chance his brother would suggest a solution hadn’t been such a good idea.

  “You know I don’t drink alcohol,” Edward told him, and he had to admit to himself how peevish he sounded.

  “No, but I do.” Christopher turned around and raised his glass. “Cheers.”

  Edward had declined all offers of tea or other beverages since he wasn’t scheduled to use the privy for another two hours, but his dry tongue told him he might have to make an exception.

  So it begins, the deterioration of order and sanity, and we haven’t left yet.

  “Are you sure you don’t want anything?” Christopher asked. “I have some coffee from our holdings in Jakarta.”

  “Your holdings,” Edward said. “You’re the duke, I’m the younger brother. You inherit everything, I’m content to spend my life drawing a decent, livable salary at the University. You make heirs. I write papers. We do what we’re good at, and for me, that does not include traipsing to goodness knows where and searching for goodness knows what.”

  “But there is no harm in challenging yourself.”

  Edward drew himself up. “I have all the challenge I need in my work, which is now going to be hopelessly delayed. I have papers I was going to finish this summer.”

  “Speaking of which, Mary has written her first article and was hoping her Uncle Edward would peer review it for her.”

  Edward groaned, but he had to smile when his niece, accompanied by her mother, entered the parlor and gravely presented a set of papers folded in half, the edge bound with string. On the front, printed in neat child’s scrawl, was “On the Habits of Earthworms”.

  “I put it in a journal for you, Uncle,” she said. “It’th on worms.”

  He took it with a serious expression. “And did you follow the experimental protocol we discussed the last time I was here, of careful observation at regular intervals?”

  “Yeth, Uncle,” she said.

  She’s the only scientist I know with a lisp. Yet she’s more intelligent than Harry Kluge.

  “She did very well,” her mother, the Duchess said. “And she hopes you will give her work the serious consideration it deserves.”

  He heard the note of warning. The Duchess, formerly Miss Pauline Danahue, had been Miss Ellis’s predecessor and had charmed the Duke on one of his infrequent visits to the department. While Edward was happy for his brother, he never forgave him for stealing away the best secretary they’d had. Not to mention his setting a dangerous precedent. Edward was sure Miss Ellis now hoped to marry into a title after hearing of what happened to Miss Danahue.

  “I will read it with the utmost seriousness,” he said and set it beside him. Mary climbed on the couch and leaned her head on his arm. The weight of her head barely disturbed him, but what did one do with a seven-year-old child?

  “Thank you, Uncle.”

  “You’re welcome, Mary. Isn’t it your nap time? It’s two o’clock.”

  She laughed, and he cringed at the thought of her drool on his sleeve. All children drooled, didn’t they?

  “No, Uncle. I don’t take napth anymore. That’s for babies like Emma and Charlie.”

  “Emma, whom you still haven’t met,” the duchess said. Edward couldn’t think of her by her given name Pauline. She would always be Miss Danahue to him, so he consciously substituted Duchess.

  “Oh, right. How old is she?”

  “Four weeks,” Mary said. Her sigh moved Edward’s arm into an uncomfortable angle, and he shifted, which made her cling further. He was certain his hand had fallen asleep.

  “Mary has been a tremendous help,” the duchess said. “Even if she thinks her little sister is a lot of noise and bother.”

  “She screams in the middle of the night more than Charlie did,” Mary said. “I’m writing a paper on it.”

  “Well, that is one of the problems with babies,” Edward said to her. “They’re very noisy at times.” He tried to shift again—the child was making him uncomfortably warm.

  “Mary, come sit beside me,” the duchess said. “You’re baking your uncle.”

  With another sigh of long-suffering, the little girl complied. Edward, ignoring the glare from his sister-in-law, rotated his shoulder and flexed his hand so the feeling would return.

  “Well, your uncle is about to embark on a grand adventure,” Christopher said.

  “An adventure?” Mary jumped up from the ottoman where her mother tried to settle her and ran back to Edward. She put both hands on his knees and looked at him with the big blue Bailey family eyes. “What kind of adventure?”

  “Yes, Edward, what will this trip entail?” Now the duchess folded her hands in her lap and leaned forward with a look of absolute delight. “Do you have to travel far?”

  “I don’t know. It depends.” How is the child, who hasn’t been farther than five miles from home, more excited about this than I am?

  “It’s all rather a secret, Pauline,” said Christopher. “All he can say is that there’s a rich American backer for the trip, and he and Johann Bledsoe are going on the Grand Tour.”

  “Why would a wealthy American want to send the two of you on a tour of Europe and the Mediterranean?”

  “Can I go?” Mary asked. “Mummy says I’m a good traveler. I never get sick in our coach.”

  “Oh, motion sickness. I hadn’t thought of that.” Edward’s stomach swayed at the mere thought of being on a ship. “This gets worse and worse.”

  “Mary, come sit here. Of course you can’t go. Your uncle and his friend don’t want a little girl tagging along ruining all their fun.”

  “No, but a big one will be,” Edward said before he could stop the words from coming out. Seasickness with the possibility of female witnesses—worse yet.

  “Who?” everyone in the room asked.

  Edward looked around, aware of the two pairs of blue eyes and one brown fixed on him. What concern is this of theirs? They seem almost giddy at the idea of me being in close quarters with a female for an extended amount of time.

  “Her name is Iris McTavish,” he said, choosing his words as carefully as he would a combination of electrodes for one
of his aether experiments, but he feared it was too late—he’d already incited an explosion of interest. “She’s an antiquarian, or seems to hope to be. Her father, an archaeologist, was to have come on the journey, but he’s ill.”

  “Ah, yes, Irvin McTavish. A good Scotsman.” Christopher drummed his fingers on his knee as he tended to do when pulling up facts and figures from his mental ledger. “He’s been at the university forever. Wife died a few years ago of consumption. Rumor has it he’s dying from it too, but he’s been very close-lipped about what exactly is wrong with him.”

  “What cause do you have to know of him?” Edward asked. “You’re of the business, not university, world.”

  “My interest in the university didn’t end when I snatched Pauline away,” Christopher told him. “I’m in the habit of making a gift each year to support a scholarship for a promising student in the sciences. Last year it went to a young man in the new geology/archaeology department. McTavish was on the selection committee. I met him at the banquet. Remarkable fellow.”

  Hope replaced resentment, and Edward sat straight. “Of course! You could endow a position in my department and keep me from having to go on this blasted trip.”

  “Doesn’t the term conflict of interest mean anything to you?” the duchess asked. “If we endowed a position, you wouldn’t be under consideration due to your relationship to the duke.”

  “Oh right. That hardly seems fair.”

  “Less fair than the position being endowed for you because you’re Christopher’s brother?” The duchess took a sip of her tea, her eyes gleaming with joy at calling Edward out.

  Or at least that was what he surmised, but before he could challenge her, his brother said, “Drop it, Edward. You’ll have to go on the journey. Perhaps you will meet Irvin McTavish at some point, and you’ll see what I meant.”